


When Push Comes to Shove

by chewysugar



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Public Sex, Reunion Sex, Rough Sex, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29724168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: They've been separated for too long, and can't help themselves.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 158





	When Push Comes to Shove

**Author's Note:**

> So I recently got acquainted with the TV show and I love these two (and Yenn) so damn much that all these plot bunnies started breeding in my head.

Languid days are a rarity in the life of a Witcher. In times past, Geralt chafed at the notion of doing nothing—at simply existing. But influences outside his sphere of control—mostly that which came in the form of a beautiful, vexing, traveling bard—have taught him to allow himself to be. And what better way to be then on a riverbank, in bright spring sunlight with Jaskier idly chattering on beside him.

They’ve been apart for weeks—Geralt following yet another stray creature terrorizing yet another hapless township. The journey was longer than the battle, and Geralt was so ornery by the time of their reunion that he could have spat scrap iron.

But as ever Jaskier’s presence calmed him. Today is truly a beautiful day, golden rays glancing off murmuring water and birds calling among the canopy. Even to one so weary of the world, its truly soothing.

“I’ve been thinking,” Jaskier sighs.

Geralt, boots kicked off, sleeves rolled up, smirks. “That’s dangerous.”

“You wound me.” But Jaskier’s too at peace to feel much offense. In any event, Geralt was merely teasing, wanting to make his bard’s flower petal lips spread in a blooming smile.

“I was thinking of a new song to compose,” he continues. One leg is thrown over the other, his foot dangling in leisurely peace. “Inspired by you, as surprising as that sounds.”

Geralt sits up, eyeing Jaskier warily. As much as he loves him, he knows the fickle nature of muses. While Jaskier can compose truly beautiful pieces when he means to, the process is often an act of separating golden wheat from fetid chafe.

Jaskier cracks an eyelid open. “Don’t look so afraid, it’s still in development.”

“If it’s anything like the one you wrote about my cock—

“Nothing of the kind. I could never come as close to the sublime lyrics of that piece.” Sitting up, Jaskier continues, “This was inspired by your absence, as a matter of fact. It’s a truly pitiful thing—lonely and beseeching with the ache of days.”

“Hrm.”

“And that sound features prominently.” His voice ringing clear as the sky above, he begins to sing, “ _My pillow is colder than ice; my bed as bare as heath; without him by my side, I do naught but cry; for I long to be underneath…my Witcher, my Witcher_ —“

Geralt swats him on the knee. “That’s your ode to loneliness? You missed being bedded by me?”

“What worse torment is there to endure?” Jaskier smirks, then prods Geralt in the chest. “And don’t hit me unless you’re going to spank me.”

“I may do just that.”

“Don’t tease, Geralt.” He shoves Geralt with his shoulder, a gesture that is ineffective given Geralt’s comparative strength.

Somehow they descend into a bout of play-wrestling. Compared to the brutal fights he’s been in, it’s a welcome change. That it’s Jaskier only makes it much more sublime—the feel of that soft, wiry body beneath his as they roll around on the riverback. The smell of his skin and the weight of him in those odd moments when he manages to best Geralt.

It ends with the Witcher atop his bard, both breathing heavily. The hardness of Jaskier’s body is evident against Geralt’s leg. Golden eyes, weighted from years of hardship, bore into wide-eyed blues that, for all their inexperience, are not at all innocent or guileless. Jaskier’s a flagon of elvish wine, something Geralt wants to drain to the base.

They haven’t kissed since Geralt returned. He was too busy recovering from the journey—being bathed and sleeping and eating. So when their lips finally crash together, it’s nearly rends the air around them in twain. They’ve been starved each other for too long, and the kiss isn’t gentle or searching. It’s a demanding thing, devouring lost time and air and spit. Flush against Jaskier’s body, Geralt grinds his aching hardness into the bard’s own length. They rut together like two beasts, and something indeed animal is stirring in Geralt’s chest. He’s home from battle, and he wants to claim what belongs to him.

They broke apart, Jsakier’s lips red as berries. Geralt’s broad fingers slide down the bard’s body, tucking into the hem of his trousers.

“How do you want me?” His voice ragged with need, Geralt can barely unfasten his own pants. He dimly registers that they’re doing this in full view of sun and sky and that anyone could come along and find them—but all the better. They ought to be observed together—Geralt seen claiming his songbird.

Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck. With the purchase, he pulls himself upwards, and presses his lips to the Witcher’s ear.

“Fuck me like you fight, Geralt.”

Geralt nearly comes in his pants at those words—at the sudden deep timber in Jaskier’s normally even voice. He bucks against the bard, and shimmies as far out of his pants as he can to free his cock.

Despite the haze of lust, he steadies himself once he has Jaskier’s pants around his ankles. Gazing into those mischievous eyes, he says, “If I go to hard, I want you to tell me.” His fingers, slick with his own spit, toy with Jaskier’s hole.

Jaskier smirks, his hands sliding to Geralt’s bare ass and grasping him almost to the point of pain.

“I’m not delicate.”

Geralt’s lips quirk in a smile. “Suit yourself.”

He enters Jaskier hard, and Jaskier cries out. Not in pain. Not even in delight. He lets out a great whoop of something like laughter—an expression of utmost happiness at what, for all intents and purposes, is an act of near-brutal passion.

Jaskier wasn’t lying, either. Despite his knack for foolery and gentle disposition, he matches Geralt strength for strength. Each hard thrust into his body sends him clutching his Witcher harder, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

Geralt takes him to the hilt, his muscles flexing with his efforts to meet Jaskier’s demand. All his long loneliness fuels each hard jerk of his hips, each nip of his teeth along Jaskier’s throat. He feels Jaskier’s own length wet from precum soaking against his skin as they fuck like animals in plain sight of the forest.

Buried to the balls, Geralt feels himself walking towards the edge of frenzy.

“Where do you want me?” He growls into Jaskier’s neck. “Jask, tell me where you want me to come.”

And those pretty blue eyes burn like true flame as Jaskier says, “On me. Gods, please, Geralt, do it on me. Mark me…”

As much as he wants to stay buried in Jaskier’s tight ass, Geralt isn’t one to refuse. He pulls out at the last second, fisting his cock as Jaskier does the same. They come together, Jaskier in a steady stream that coats his bared belly. But it’s been so long for Geralt—too long, in fact and he explodes. Ropes of hot cum stain Jaskier’s body. Blinding sensation rolls into blinding sensation, and Geralt’s legs turn to water with the force of his orgasm. At last, when he’s drained and has nothing left to give, he collapses against Jaskier’s body.

He’s breathing hard, as if he really did just fight with a truly vexing foe. Jaskier’s arms wrap him around, stroking pleasant paths up and down his still-clothed back. Gods, but they didn’t even get fully naked.

“Bit backed up were you?” Jaskier eventually whispers, the ghost of a laugh haunting his voice.

Geralt chuckles, and raises his head, looking through languid lids at his bard—at his love.

“It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, but that was, er…quite voluminous.”

“I missed you.”

Jaskier stares at him, disbelieving. “I’m tickled you’re faithful, Geralt, but you can’t tell me you didn’t even entertain yourself on your journey?”

Geralt sighs, too content to push himself away. Instead he nestles his head against Jaskier’s chest. Nobody would ever believe the big, bad, gruff Witcher to seek comfort from someone so small. But Jaskier is Geralt’s favorite place to rest.

“I wanted to wait for you.” Geralt can feel sleep closing around his senses. He hopes Jaskier has enough sense to wake him before he dozes off with his ass bared to the heavens above.

Jaskier chuckles, his fingers threading through Geralt’s silver hair. “I’m blessed. A man who tolerates my songs and won’t even be unfaithful to me with his trusty right hand.”

Smiling lazily, Geralt doesn’t reply. He may have returned to the inn where he and Jaskier had been holed up for the month. But it wasn’t until now that he truly felt himself at home.

**Author's Note:**

> Do let me know what you think!


End file.
